


ambrosia child

by ambrosiachild



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: After they run there's love. For real this time., Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 04:26:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8734825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambrosiachild/pseuds/ambrosiachild
Summary: touch; warmth. credence experiences love as first love does.





	

Mr. Graves lets him holds hands in public, after a while, even with the glamour on. He looks nothing like he used to, or how Credence has relearned him: Mr. Graves’s head of black hair, his old brows, his softened scowl; Mr. Graves’s whitest blond hair, his tall frame, his warm smile.

Right now, he is a middle-aged man, with brown, brown, brown hair and circular glasses, short moustache on his upper lip. He looks like a librarian, one of those learned men who could spend their lives around books.

“I wouldn’t normally be so ridiculous,” Mr. Graves tells him. Mr. Graves tells him more now. Thoughts, comments, as though he’s gotten used to Credence listening. Credence hopes so. Even with the glamour, the steadiness of Mr. Graves’s voice always calms him, always beckons him to follow. “But we really can’t risk it.”

Credence can’t even begin to picture what would be so ridiculous about Mr. Graves’s glamour.

The mannerisms are all different, of course. The way Mr. Graves moves and gestures, the way he talks when they’re around other people: “Bloody tiresome,” he says at the end of the day, voice gruff with an accent Credence isn’t used to hearing from him. But Credence still recognizes him, regardless, in the quieter moments. Credence thinks—he hopes—he would know him until the end of his world. The way Mr. Graves touches him when they’re on their own, the way his voice is so much firmer, how much a better judge he is than Credence about what he is.

Currently, he memorizes the feeling of Mr. Graves’s arm against his, headily exhilarates in the stomach-jumping giddiness that rushes up. They’re holding hands in broad daylight; Credence’s palm has gone all pale and sweaty and jittery, but he clings, clings, clings, and Mr. Graves doesn’t say anything, just strokes a slow, lazy thumb along the back of his hand as he looks over their itinerary in their notebook.

“Mr. Graves,” Credence manages out. He is so happy.

“My dear boy.” Mr. Graves squeezes his hand, knows what Credence wants to say without him saying it. He always has, and he’s explained why, but Credence loves it. Trusts him. “We have those years ahead of us. Take them slowly.”

(Credence used to think…he used to. He doesn’t anymore.

But he used to think that if Mr. Graves could pretend so good, maybe it all had been pretend.

And maybe Credence would’ve been right even if he wanted to be wrong.)

Mr. Graves says the obscurus keeps Credence physically perfect. But because it is so powerful, it means Credence has to be careful with what magic he does or how he reacts to things. A shock will cause a Disillusionment charm to shatter. Even Mr. Graves’s magic can’t hide him, not for long; so a glamour, Mr. Graves had said; mild suggestion glamour, the kind that made people overlook certain things, the kind of Notice-Me-Not details put in the weaker points of big castles, important buildings and rooms.

“To hide me?” Credence had asked. The idea still strikes him as new. Hiding. Constantly moving.

“No,” Mr. Graves says, suddenly. _“Yo_ u are absolutely wonderful.” He’s the same, no matter the physical glamour.

Credence finds himself relaxing as Mr. Graves brushes the knuckles of his free hand against Credence’s cheek, and then slides his fingers into the collar of Credence’s newly purchased button-up shirt. They’re warm against the skin of Credence’s neck, before they withdraw, pulling out a piece of lint.

It leaves behind Credence who suddenly feels an explosion of longing; his knees are shaking. He holds onto Mr. Graves’s hand like a lifeline.

They keep walking in this crowd, just two people. Mr. Graves doesn’t like leaving him out of eyesight—he doesn’t say it, but he always looks at Credence a certain way, looks at Credence in ways that Credence really isn’t sure he knows how to understand. Credence wants to know about Mr. Graves, wants to listen, learn, become everything Mr. Graves says that he is.

Credence has always desired, even if he wasn’t allowed to. Always thought of Mr. Graves when he hadn’t thought about how much he always disappointed Ma, when he hadn’t known what to think about on his own. Folded up in Mr. Graves’s arms—Credence. Credence has a low body temperature, but Mr. Graves has always been warmth, bleeding through touch and skin.

Even on warm nights, he says he likes warming Credence up. He drags his palms flat across every plane and skinny surface of Credence’s pale body, kisses and marks all the rest. Credence always feels heat spread and bloom across every part of his body Mr. Graves has blessed with his touch, head always heady with desires and wants and his throat full of words, sinful in what they confess.

Mr. Graves withdraws his hand from Credence’s so he can readjust the lapels of Credence’s trim waistcoat. He touches so familiarly now, giving them so liberally that Credence wonders if he’s dreaming. The nagging doubt at the back of his mind that says, _He doesn’t really want you, you never can be enough,_ says so. Says it can’t be real, and it if it is, it still isn’t permanent. He’ll find some other child who has the kinds of power that Credence has, he’ll be disappointed when Credence can’t even begin to master the magic that he teaches him.

(“It is common knowledge that young men such as yourself,” Mr. Graves had said, mirthfully, “must be in want of a good jacket as well.”

“I only want you, Mr. Graves,” Credence had said, quiet, uncomfortable with the sudden purchases: he had a series of new shirts and trousers, even a hat. He had felt lik an imposter, his clothes form-fitting and tailored, dressed like somebody he would never be.

Mr. Graves had taken his hands, had placed a palm on his neck, and kissed him in that dressing room so quietly. “You couldn’t be anything but what I wanted,” he’d murmured, stroking Credence's jawline when they parted, when Credence’s face had been flushed. “You are _marvelous,_ Credence.”)

Credence practices every night. He memorizes wand movements in his sleep, thinks about magical theories during the day when he’s alone—about how all those threads of magic are just there, how intention is the formation of spells and the words are just handicaps. He imagines Mr. Graves’s wand posture, his careful sometimes patient, sometimes impatient expectations and wishes he could surpass them all.

He doesn’t feel marvelous.

At their temporary home, a small flat out of the many Mr. Graves has rented or bought for their privacy, Mr. Graves sits him on—their—bed and sheds the layers of Credence’s clothes. He always does this, and Credence always feels comforted; the feeling of belonging, of Credence being taken care of. He relishes this at the end of the day, on the days that Mr. Graves isn’t out leaving Credence alone with instructions not to let anyone through the wards, when Mr. Graves has his eyes—greedily, Credence hopes he’s reading—on the expanses of skin he can expose.

Mr. Graves unwraps carefully.

Credence shivers; he feels heady and wanton as the cool air hits his body, as the warmth of Mr. Graves’s hands presses into his neck and shoulders and spreads through his body like an ignited flame.

Mr. Graves cradles his face, and Credence—Credence wants.

He kisses Mr. Graves with clumsy longingness, and Mr. Graves groans behind it, fingers digging into Credence’s skin.  
Mr. Graves's hands are thicker than Credence's, worn and scarred on palm and fingers. He traces the rest on Credence's skin, the ones that won't disappear because they've been there too long already.

Touch is no substitute for words, but Credence doesn't need them. He drinks in, savours, warmth and promise in heady kisses in the warm bracket between Mr. Graves's arms.  
  
It's okay, Credence thinks. This much. This much is all he could want.  
  



End file.
